Till the world ends
by elveriamoir
Summary: This is dedicated solely to the god of all Toymakers and Tinkers. Somehow he wound his way into my brain. Here's to Bifur.
1. Tinker

_**AN: I do not own any of the characters or places in the hobbit, they belong to Professor Tolkien and he would kill me for how I have corrupted them. **_

Tinker.

Bifur knew he wasn't royalty. Hell he knew he wasn't even a warrior, but when those blue eyes looked at him he felt like he could slay dragons. He swallowed hard as the beautiful blond sashayed towards him, blue eyes never leaving his. His fingers bit into the wood under his hands as he watched dexterous fingers work down the ties holding the thin undershirt together. He froze as the fabric hit the floor and he was left to stare at the muscled chest of the dwarf slinking towards him. Dressed in only skin tight leather trousers the dwarf straddled his lap and wound strong fingers into the white striped black of Bifur's hair. His fingers itched to touch but he knew the rules of this game well and gripped the arms of his chair tighter still. The music sounded up through the thin floor of the inn and the blond god above him started to grind to the beat. Bifur swallowed hard as blond hair, free of its braids, spilled over a sweat sheened muscle chest. The song came to an end and another started with Bifur hardly noticing, the slender hips in front of him swayed and he was transfixed by the ripple of muscle as the dwarf undulated. He couldn't help the groan that ripped from his throat as the long fingers settled on the ties of the leather trousers. His breathing was ragged as he met cerulean blue eyes and he forced himself to stay sitting even when the leather hit the floor. His eyes roved over the expanse of tanned skin as the blonde prowled, closing the distance between them. He finally let go of the seat and closed his fingers around the narrow hips even as the blond claimed his mouth in a searing kiss. Even as his head spun Bifur made a mental note to make Fili play things more often.

_**AN: Leave me a review and let me know what you think please. **_


	2. Things in the Rear-view Mirror

_**AN: I don't own any of the hobbit characters I am just taking them out of Tolkien's toy box and playing with them.**_

Things in the rear-view mirror may not be as they appear.

Bifur ran a knarled hand through his greying locks as he sat in front of the large steel mirror. A plain, aging male peered back at him, it's only unique feature being the axe embedded in his forehead. He snorted softly and a smirk found its way onto his lips. Oh they would never know what had hit them.

Straightening from the half slouch he had adopted, Bifur dragged the leather band out of his hair, allowing the braid to fall apart. Pushing to his feet he stripped with practiced ease, dumping his grey-brown, tattered gear on the floor, alongside his holey boots. Practiced fingers scooped a special type of liquid soap from a pot and he made short work of the skin-coloured paint hiding his tattoos.

Skin clear of gunk he threw his head back allowing his white-stripped, black dreadlocks to fall down his back. He freed his beard from the band holding it and shook the dust that dulled it down out. The beard (while not dreadlocked) matched his hair and he shot his reflection a cocky grin.

He stepped up to a large black chest and opened the lid to rake through its internals. He nodded and pulled several items of clothing free. Wasting little time he stepped into a pair of heavily buckled black leather trousers. Stuffing his feet into loosely laced black leather boots, he tugged a skin tight black vest over his head and tucked it into the trousers. Fastening the buckles on his boots took a little longer as they were stiff, but he managed and slipped a silver studded black leather belt through the loops on his trousers. His vest was ripped at the neck and he tied a leather thong around his neck, allowing the spikey silver pendent to lie at the hollow of his throat. He wrapped thick black leather bands around his left wrist and fastened a heavy metal and spiked jet bracelet around the other.

He sat in front of the mirror again and pulled the pots laid on the table by it towards him. His skin was pale and his tattoos stood out a stark black on his arms. With a steady hand he carefully outlined his lips with a black kohl. Carefully he began shading them in, working from the darkest of blacks at the edges of his lips he faded the colour out to a pale grey where they met. His eyes were next and he started by ringing them with kohl pencil again. The black line was as close as he could get it to his lash line. Giving himself that base he set about finishing his look. He took the pale grey powder up to his brows and followed the line around to fill in the circles under his eyes. He put the brushes down and flexed his fingers before starting on the next shade. This slightly darker grey he took up to the bone of his eye socket above his eye and swept it down to the same place under it. Using his pinkie finger he blended the two colours together, before picking up the final tub of powder. The powder in this was inky black and he hummed as he coated his eyelid with it. A careful examination told him his eyes were even and he tilted his head back to slip in the white contacts, having to blink several times to get them to sit properly. They reduced his vision to shades of grey but he could managed well enough. The final touch to his makeup was to use the largest brush on the table to brush some of the palest grey powder into the hollows of his cheeks, just under the bones.

A shook his hair back from his face and stood, slipping several silver skull and dragon rings onto his hands as he did. A silver topped ebony cane completed his ensemble and he left the room without a backward glance. Striding through the dingy corridors he could hear a rumbling getting louder as he approached. He pushed through the heavy doors and strode out onto the stage. Howls and cheers filled his ears and he grinned viciously. "Who's ready to rock?"

_**AN: Let me know what you think.**_


	3. Till the World Ends

_**Yes I know so far the chapters have been posted elsewhere, but now you get a completely new one. This one ties in with Bifur from An Unexpected Hobbit.  
>What else am I forgetting? Oh yes. Disclaimer. I do not own the hobbit. The creation of its characters and world belongs to Tolkien and was brought to life by Peter Jackson and co. <strong>_

_**So without further ado, your story.**_

Till the World Ends.

Most people saw the axe embedded in his skull as a disability. He was fine with that, if they wanted to see him as a brainless fool who couldn't understand them when they spoke then that was their problem. He would shrug mentally when they spoke to him like he was a small child and the vacant smile that appeared on his face when he imagined ways to make them die slowly probably didn't help. He was good at his act however and bar his cousins no-one in their small town had ever seen him loose his temper. Bofur even complained he used to be more prone to anger before the axe and weren't head injuries meant to make dwarves more aggressive. He would just shrug and merrily eat his way through whatever flowers Bombur had picked for his meal.

Since the attack meat had tasted off to him and his once vivid imagination turned against him in this. He had decided very early on that most meats weren't an option for him. He could do without the visits to the outhouse after every meal.

He had found his co-ordination wasn't affected by the ever present wound-scar. Happily he had been able to keep on with his tinkering and toymaking. The engineering part of his mind hadn't been affected either and he could make fantastic mechanisms that could cause his toys to fly or prowl or even play music. That last one had been a favourite with Bombur's children of all ages and he was soon inundated with requests from families that Bombur knew.

His crafting wasn't his only skill, and despite his outward lack of aggression he was a fierce and deadly fighter. If he preferred a boar-spear to a more traditional weapon then it was no-one's business than his own. If he didn't tell them that it had belonged to the dwarf who had given his life for Bifur in the same attack that took his ability to speak in the common tongue then that was their fault for not listening. Bofur knew, but then his cousin had been the one to find them. Bifur could remember the, then young, miner swinging into the orc with a viciousness that completely wiped the cheery smile from his cheeks and crystallised the twinkle in his eyes. That Bofur had been using his mattock having just finished his shift in the mines only cemented Bifur's belief that anything was a deadly weapon in the right hands.

His loyalty to his family could not be outshone by anything or anyone. So when his cousins had signed up to travel with Oakenshield to reclaim Erebor, Bifur had rolled his eyes and signed the parchment seconds after they. He found instead of his loyalty being pulled in different directions his family simply grew.

First he became protective of the Durin princes, far too young and pretty to be on such a quest.

They were shortly followed by the scribe Ori and his oldest brother. Bifur believed them both to be far too genteel to be trekking through the mud and rain. Nori didn't seem to fit but Bifur accepted that he came with his brothers and merely turned a blind eye to the other's tricks.

Balin was next to secure his loyalty and earn the right to be called family. The older dwarf was calm and peaceful, and listened to what Bifur had to say.

Strangely the hobbit was next. Despite the distance Bifur tried to keep the small male at there was a defensiveness there that stoked a similar feeling in his chest. He kept out of the hobbit's way though. It was easier on them all if he didn't put them through that.

Oin came next in his adoption of the Company. He hadn't realised he was calling them all family until he fussed worriedly over the healer in Rivendale.

Ah Rivendale. Things certainly came to a head there. He found out why Nori hadn't fit in comfortably with the family tag. It was because the wily, sneaky dwarf was his One. That had come as a shock. Then the hobbit being the first to give them a bonding gift meant Bifur threw his caution of the small male out of the window.

Dwalin was the next in his family. Since the warrior found his One in Ori and the scribe was the brother of Nori, not to mention the guard being Balin's brother, there was really no other place for him.

Gloin was the second last company member to be thought of as family. Bifur had been cautious of the banker-turned-warrior, but the red haired dwarf's devotion to his One and son had softened his heart. Then he had seen Gloin tackle goblins to protect Bofur's back and it was settled.

Strangely it was Thorin Oakenshield. The leader of their company and his king who he had the most trouble trusting. It wasn't until they reached the home of the shape-shifter that Bifur was even remotely comfortable around the imposing royal. He watched as the hobbit and king slowly gravitated towards each other, resisted banging his head off the table on several occasions and finally came to the conclusion that the king was just as mortal as the next dwarf. It wasn't until his heart missed a beat when the king collapsed in the Mirkwood that he realised Thorin was also family.

_**AN: Leave me a message and let me know what you think please. **_


	4. Fire

_**AN: I don't own any of the hobbit characters I am just taking them out of Tolkien's toy box and playing with them.**_

Fire.

Bifur stared in the mirror as he mentally worked himself up for his show. He was known world over as one of the best Side-show acts in the business, and also one of the safest. Yes he was aware it was a strange combination, but then if he wasn't he would have sliced his face into ribbons or set himself on fire years ago. He smirked as he ran a hand down his chest, the fire show definitely caught people's attention.

He walked onto the stage as the music started and gave a nod to show he was ready. Since it was only a short show he was going for the fire act. The crowd responded wildly as he trailed the burning batons across his skin, before moving onto his fire eating act.

He allowed himself a moment's pause to gather his breath before he bowed at the end of his show. Even with the wild applause he could still see the shock on a lot of the faces. Oh he did so love getting that response.


	5. Headless Horseman

_**AN: I don't own any of the hobbit characters I am just taking them out of Tolkien's toy box and playing with them.**_

Headless Horseman.

Way back in the deep woods there lived a scrawny old dwarf who had a reputation for being the best conjure in the Rhovanion. With his bedraggled black-and-grey hair, funny eyes - one yellow and one green - and the axe in his forehead, Old Bifur was not a pretty picture, but he was the best there was at fixing what ailed a man, and that was all that counted.

Old Bifur's house was full of herbs and roots and bottles filled with conjuring medicine. The walls were lined with strange books brimming with magical spells. Old Bifur was the only one living in the Brown Lands who knew how to read; his granny, who had also been a conjurer, had taught him the skill as part of his magical training.

Just about the only friend Old Bifur had was a tough, mean, ugly old razorback hog that ran wild around his place. It rooted so much in his kitchen garbage that all the leftover spells started affecting it. Some folks swore up and down that the old razorback hog sometimes walked upright like man. One fellow claimed he'd seen the pig sitting in the rocker on Old Bifur's porch, chattering away to him while he stewed up some potions in the kitchen, but everyone discounted that story on account of the fellow who told it was a little too fond of moonshine.

"Raw Head" was the name Old Bifur gave the razorback, referring maybe to the way the ugly creature looked a bit like some of the dead pigs come butchering time down in Esgaroth. The razorback didn't mind the funny name. Raw Head kept following Old Bifur around his little cabin and rooting up the kitchen leftovers. He'd even walk to town with him when she came to the local mercantile to sell his home remedies.

Well, folks in town got so used to seeing Raw Head and Old Bifur around the town that it looked mighty strange one day around hog-driving time when Old Bifur came to the mercantile without him.

"Where's Raw Head?" the owner asked as he accepted his basket full of home-remedy potions. The liquid in the bottles swished in an agitate manner as Old Bifur said: "I ain't seen him around today, and I'm mighty worried. You seen him here in town?"

"Nobody's seen him around today. They would've told me if they did," the mercantile owner said. "We'll keep a lookout fer you."

"That's mighty kind of you. If you see him, tell him to come home straightaway," Old Bifur said. The mercantile owner nodded agreement as he handed over his weekly pay.

Old Bifur fussed to himself all the way home. It wasn't like Raw Head to disappear, especially not the day they went to town. The man at the mercantile always saved the best scraps for the mean old razorback, and Raw Head never missed a visit. When the old conjuring dwarf got home, he mixed up a potion and poured it onto a flat plate.

"Where's that old hog got to?" he asked the liquid. It clouded over and then a series of pictures formed. First, Old Bifur saw the good-for-nothing hunter that lived on the next ridge sneaking around the forest, rounding up razorback hogs that didn't belong to him. One of the hogs was Raw Head. Then he saw him taking the hogs down to Esgaroth, where folks from the next town were slaughtering their razorbacks. Then he saw his hog, Raw Head, slaughtered with the rest of the pigs and hung up for gutting. The final picture in the liquid was the pile of bloody bones that had once been his hog, and his scraped-clean head lying with the other hogsheads in a pile.

Old Bifur was infuriated by the death of his only friend. It was murder to him, plain and simple. Everyone in three counties knew that Raw Head was his friend, and that lazy, hog-stealing, good-for-nothing hunter on the ridge was going to pay for slaughtering him.

Now Old Bifur tried to practice white conjuring most of the time, but he knew the dark secrets too. He pulled out an old, secret book his granny had given him and turned to the very last page. He lit several candles and put them around the plate containing the liquid picture of Raw Head and his bloody bones. Then he began to chant: "Raw Head and Bloody Bones. Raw Head and Bloody Bones."

The light from the windows disappeared as if the sun had been snuffed out like a candle. Dark clouds billowed into the clearing where Old Bifur's cabin stood, and the howl of dark spirits could be heard in the wind that pummelled the treetops.

"Raw Head and Bloody Bones. Raw Head and Bloody Bones."

Bifur continued the chant until a bolt of silver lightning left the plate and streaked out through the window, heading in the direction of Esgaroth.

When the silver light struck Raw Head's severed head, which was piled on the hunter's wagon with the other hog heads, it tumbled to the ground and rolled until it was touching the bloody bones that had once inhabited its body. As the hunter's wagon rumbled away toward the ridge where he lived, the enchanted Raw Head called out: "Bloody bones, get up and dance!"

Immediately, the bloody bones reassembled themselves into the skeleton of a razorback hog walking upright, as Raw Head had often done when he was alone with Old Bifur. The head hopped on top of his skeleton and Raw Head went searching through the woods for weapons to use against the hunter. He borrowed the sharp teeth of a dying panther, the claws of a long-dead bear, and the tail from a rotting raccoon and put them over his skinned head and bloody bones.

Then Raw Head headed up the track toward the ridge, looking for the hunter who had slaughtered him. Raw Head slipped passed the thief on the road and slid into the barn where the hunter kept his horse and wagon. Raw Head climbed up into the loft and waited for the hunter to come home.

It was dusk when the hunter drove into the barn and unhitched his horse. The horse snorted in fear, sensing the presence of Raw Head in the loft. Wondering what was disturbing his usually-calm horse, the hunter looked around and saw a large pair of eyes staring down at him from the darkness in the loft.

The hunter frowned, thinking it was one of the local kids fooling around in his barn.

"Land o' Goshen, what have you got those big eyes fer?" he snapped, thinking the kids were trying to scare him with some crazy mask.

"To see your grave," Raw Head rumbled very softly. The hunter snorted irritably and put his horse into the stall.

"Very funny. Ha,ha," The hunter said. When he came out of the stall, he saw Raw Head had crept forward a bit further. Now his luminous yellow eyes and his bear's claws could clearly be seen.

"Land o' Goshen, what have you got those big claws fer?" he snapped. "You look ridiculous."

"To dig your grave…" Raw Head intoned softly, his voice a deep rumble that raised the hairs on the back of the hunter's neck. He stirred uneasily, not sure how the crazy kid in his loft could have made such a scary sound. If it really was a crazy kid.

Feeling a little spooked, he hurried to the door and let himself out of the barn. Raw Head slipped out of the loft and climbed down the side of the barn behind him. With nary a rustle to reveal his presence, Raw Head raced through the trees and up the path to a large, moonlight rock. He hid in the shadow of the huge stone so that the only things showing were his gleaming yellow eyes, his bear claws, and his raccoon tail.

When the hunter came level with the rock on the side of the path, he gave a startled yelp. Staring at Raw Head, he gasped: "You nearly knocked the heart right out of me, you crazy kid! Land o' Goshen, what have you got that crazy tail fer?"

"To sweep your grave…" Raw Head boomed, his enchanted voice echoing through the woods, getting louder and louder with each echo. The hunter took to his heels and ran for his cabin. He raced passed the old well-house, passed the wood pile, over the rotting fence and into his yard. But Raw Head was faster. When the hunter reached his porch, Raw Head leapt from the shadows and loomed above him. The hunter stared in terror up at Raw Head's gleaming yellow eyes in the ugly razorback hogshead, his bloody bone skeleton with its long bear claws, sweeping raccoon's tail and his gleaming sharp panther teeth.

"Land o' Goshen, what have you got those big teeth fer?" he gasped desperately, stumbling backwards from the terrible figure before him.

"To eat you up, like you wanted to eat me!" Raw Head roared, descending upon the good-for-nothing hunter. The murdering thief gave one long scream in the moonlight. Then there was silence, and the sound of crunching.

Nothing more was ever seen or heard of the lazy hunter who lived on the ridge. His horse also disappeared that night. But sometimes folks would see Raw Head roaming through the forest in the company of his friend Old Bifur. And once a month, on the night of the full moon, Raw Head would ride the hunter's horse through town, wearing the old man's blue overalls over his bloody bones with a hole cut-out for his raccoon tail. In his bloody, bear-clawed hands, he carried his raw, razorback hogshead, lifting it high against the full moon for everyone to see.

_**AN;**_

_**Leave me a review please. **_


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